Free Tough Luck by Jason Starr Page A

money?”
    “Don’t worry, you’ll get your money.”
    “When, Ginger?”
    “Put in this one more bet for me.”
    “No.”
    “Come on.”
    “Fuck you.”
    “I swear, this is the last time—”
    “The answer is no— NO. I’m doing this for your own good, Mickey. You know what they say at the OTB—‘Bet with your head, not over it.’ Well, you’re over your head. Way over it.”
    “How about you give me the number of another bookie?”
    “Do yourself a favor,” Artie said, “quit while you’re behind. Put off school, get a part-time job, work nights, weekends, park cars, answer phones—do whatever you gotta do to straighten this thing out.”
    “Thanks,” Mickey said, walking away.
    “You got till Wednesday,” Artie called after him. “And don’t do nothing stupid. Whatever you do, don’t put in any more action for this guy. I’m warning you—he’s bad news.”
    DRIVING HOME ON Kings Highway, Mickey thought it through both ways. If he didn’t put the bet in and the Seahawks lost, Angelo would still be in the hole to Artie for 1,020 bucks. If he put the bet in and the Seahawks won, Angelo would show up tomorrow, thinking his debt was knocked down to twenty bucks and Mickey would have to make up the thousand-dollar difference to Artie. Either way, Mickey would be fucked, so he decided he had to figure out some way to put in Angelo’s bet. At least then there was a chance Angelo could almost break even.
    Mickey pulled over at a phone booth and called Nick, Artie’s boss.
    “Hey, Nick, it’s Mickey . . . Mickey Prada. You know, Artie’s friend.”
    Mickey hardly knew Nick, and Nick waited a few seconds before he said, “Yeah, right.”
    “Sorry to call you, but I couldn’t find Artie by Kings Highway, and I wanted to put a bet in on the football game tonight.”
    “What do you want?” Nick asked.
    “It’s not me, it’s my friend Angelo. He wants two hundred times Seahawks.”
    “Angelo?” Nick said. “Isn’t that the guy Artie said’s still shy?”
    “Yeah, but Angelo squared that this afternoon,” Mickey said. “I got the money with me in my pocket, right now.”
    “ All of it?” Nick said.
    “Yeah, all of it,” Mickey said.
    “Okay, if you say so,” Nick said.
    When Mickey opened the front door to his apartment, he smelled cooked fish. He went into the kitchen and saw Sal Prada sitting at the table, eating sautéed flounder and a bowl of spaghetti with tomato sauce, reading a newspaper.
    “You cooked by yourself,” Mickey said, surprised.
    “Of course I cooked,” Sal said. “Why can’t I cook? There’s more on the stove if you want some.”
    Mickey made a plate of spaghetti and fish and ate across from his father at the little two-seat Formica table. They didn’t talk, but at least they weren’t fighting.
    After dinner, Mickey went into his room to watch the football game. Mickey rooted for the Seahawks, but it didn’t help. Although they beat the Raiders 17–14, they were laying three and a half points, so Angelo lost his bet by one half point. Now the debt to Artie and Nick was $2,120, and Mickey was suddenly positive he would never see Angelo Santoro again.

6
    MICKEY WAS WEIGHING scallops for Mrs. Murphy when Charlie said, “Here comes your friend.”
    After another night of almost no sleep, Mickey had been in a stupor all morning, feeling barely alive, but his eyes widened as he turned around suddenly, hoping to see Angelo. But then Mickey saw Chris walking toward the counter, and he let out the deep breath he’d taken.
    “Yeah, gimme five pounds of the free shrimp please,” Chris said.
    Chris was wearing an “I’M WITH STUPID” T-shirt, with a picture of a finger pointing to the left.
    “What’s up?” Mickey said, turning away, closing the container of scallops.
    “I got a break at work and thought I’d swing by,” Chris said. “Can’t you slip me some free food?”
    “No.”
    “Come on, your boss won’t catch you.”
    “What do you